


If Ink Holds True

by por_queeee



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: First Time, M/M, Rating: NC17
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-25
Updated: 2013-02-25
Packaged: 2017-12-03 15:32:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/699793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/por_queeee/pseuds/por_queeee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Watson is really beginning to wonder what it is Holmes has been writing and, more importantly, why he's being so secretive about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If Ink Holds True

**Author's Note:**

> An old fill for the kink meme: "Holmes secretly writes smutty fanfiction about Watson."

The constant scratching of Holmes’ pen was driving Watson mad. 

It had been weeks since their last case together. Although Watson was not always privy to Holmes’ adventures, it seemed that they were in a bit of a dry spell as far as cases were concerned. Watson could see it in Holmes’ steely blue eyes and the persistent tautness of his lips, in the way he paced about the sitting room, pawing through his things haphazardly. Searching for something to occupy his restless mind. He had visits from the Irregulars almost daily, sending them probing for a hint of any emerging crime that would be worthy of his expertise. He sat rigidly, waiting for a telegram that seemed to never come.

Watson tried to keep himself busy on those days they shared in the sitting room. He wrote up a few stories he had been meaning to finish, read the newspaper, studied the obscure medical texts Holmes had found for him. Anything to avoid a conversation with the increasingly foul-tempered detective. Anything to avoid another sarcastic jab, another derisive snort at Watson’s suggestions of activity. Watson watched him from the corner of his eye, tall and lean and full of nervous energy, pacing and cursing lowly to himself. He began to worry. The morocco case, he wagered, would be out soon. And the man- the man he so admired- would be gone. Lost in a haze of drugs and self-loathing.

Every now and then he would catch Holmes staring at him, a strange and faraway look in his eyes, hands clasped behind him, head quirked ever so slightly to the side. His expression… Well, he looked almost hungry, a tension evident beneath his skin despite his carefully placid face. Watson would meet his gaze each time, expecting something to be said or done, but the look would simply vanish and Holmes would force a twitching smile and turn away.

It was after about a week of this that the writing began. One morning Holmes simply walked in to the sitting room, plopped down in his seat, and started writing. After what felt like several hours, Watson became curious.

“Holmes?” Watson said hopefully, lowering his copy of The Strand. “Is there a case?”

Holmes’ hand paused in its rapid scrawl, his shoulders seeming to tense. “Hmm?”

Watson cleared his throat. This was the first time in several days that Holmes had acknowledged his presence in a way other than that damned stare. “I asked if there was a case. I mean, I assume you’re writing down notes on it? Or perhaps a letter to the client?”

As Holmes turned to look at him, Watson couldn’t help but note the slight flush to his strikingly pale skin, the way he crossed his legs with a look of discomfort. And there, again, was that look in his eyes. “Oh. No, no I’m afraid not old boy. No leads so far. Though I doubt we can go another week without something happening. Criminals never rest.”

Before Watson could say anything, Holmes had turned back to his papers and resumed his scribbling, so absorbed in his task that he sat hunched forward, back drawn taut with tension. Watson felt his eyes roving over the familiar figure and blushed slightly, turning back to his paper. As curious as he was about Holmes’ activity, he didn’t want to risk disturbing him. Anything was better than the drugs.

But Holmes’s strange behavior didn’t stop there. What bothered Watson the most was the fact that, each night, Holmes would take whatever he had written to bed with him, and would start on something new the next day, the old papers never to be seen again. Holmes paused only to play rather moody pieces on his Stradivarius, pick at a meal, smoke his pipe, or pace restlessly, still pausing to look thoughtfully at Watson now and then.

By the third night, Watson’s curiosity had become too great to suppress. He had just returned from the home of a particularly sick patient, and all he wanted was to relax with a drink by the fire before turning in for the night. But he could not. The silence of the room seemed a terrible void, filled only by the repetitive sound of Holmes’ pen meeting paper, and he could feel the beginnings of a headache spreading behind his eyes.

“Holmes.” Watson hissed finally, feeling as on edge as the other man. “Holmes, for gods sake, what is it you’re writing?”

Without stopping the movement of his pen, Holmes responded dryly. “Why, words my dear Watson.”

“Oh for- of course it’s words, Holmes. But what is the purpose of all this?”

Holmes didn’t respond, but finally laid his pen down, resting his hands carefully on his legs.

Watson cried out in frustration. “You’ve been writing for days! You’ve hardly spoken a word to me other than the occasional ‘goodbye’ when I leave the room. Its… Well, it’s rather maddening, hearing nothing but the sound of you writing for hours at a time.” 

Holmes stood then, walking to the chair opposite Watson with his characteristically graceful strides. As he sat down his eyes met Watson’s, and he attempted a smile. “I’m sorry. I had no idea my… Writings so disturbed you, doctor. Nor did I intend to neglect our friendship these past few days.”

Watson couldn’t help but smile slightly at Holmes’ words. Although he counted Holmes as his closest friend, it was sometimes difficult to assure himself that Holmes felt the same. He was an unusual man, and although Watson had become certain that there was a heart buried in all of that cold logic, he still could not always be certain that he had any place in it.

“I… Well, I am glad you’ve found a way to pass the time until your next case. I’m afraid my curiosity and impatience have conspired against me, however. It’s maddening, not knowing what you’re working on.”

“Watson” Holmes said, sharp eyes glancing briefly towards his desk. “I’m afraid I can not tell you. Be assured, it’s nothing of import.”

Watson frowned. “If that’s the case, then why not tell me what it is? I could even proof-read it, though I doubt you’d need me to.”

For a moment he thought he saw fear flash behind Holmes’ eyes, but Holmes simply waved his hand dismissively at the idea. “There’s no need. These are private papers, they do not require corrections.” 

“But Holmes, I-”

“Watson.” Holmes said warningly, a sudden seriousness falling over his features. “The answer is no.” With that he leaned back, as if declaring the matter closed. Watson felt anger flare in his stomach at the tone of Holmes’ voice. He was tired of all of the secrets Holmes kept. Surely this supposedly small matter didn’t require Holmes to speak to him as if he were a misbehaving pup, rather than a faithful and patient friend.

“Very well.” Watson snipped, picking up a nearby book and making as if to open it. “I’ll leave you to it then.”

Holmes sighed, running his deceptively delicate fingers through his dark hair. He seemed to consider the situation for a moment, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. Finally he looked back to Watson, leaning forward, unbuttoned collar exposing the neck that Watson so admired in his weaker moments. “I can assure you, that it is not something you would wish to read, Watson. I can also assure you that I am doing this merely out of boredom, in place of my cocaine.” Before Watson could open his mouth, Holmes answered his inevitable question. “No, I am not quitting. But I know that witnessing it pains you immeasurably, and so I’ve endeavored to only indulge when you are not present. I am not as thoughtless as I may sometimes appear.” Here Holmes smiled, almost sadly, before rising.

“If you’ll excuse me, John. I think it’s best I finally get some sleep.” As he started to walk away Watson rose and grabbed his wrist in desperation. But Holmes tensed noticeably at his touch, turning his head to look at Watson through half-lidded eyes. It was in his eyes that his lack of sleep was truly evident, and Watson cursed himself for not realizing that simply because Holmes went to his room at night, it did not mean he slept. Again there was the twitch of a muscle somewhere under Holmes’ mask of calm and resignation.

“It’s not just the lack of cases.” Watson said slowly. “You’ve been unable to sleep. I have no doubt you’ve been turning to the needle each night in your room. That’s not unusual for you, I suppose, but there’s something else. Holmes, for gods sake, what is it?”

“There’s nothing.” Holmes said quietly, something in his voice strained.

“I admit I don’t possess your powers of deduction, but I know you well enough to realize when something new is bothering that blasted brain of yours. I can always tell, even though you don’t ever seem to think me worthy of an explanation.”

“Watson, I’ve dealt with this for some time. I will continue to deal with it, on my own. I am more than capable. I apologize if I seem more manic as of late, but this is a problem that I can only avoid by keeping busy. Thus the writing. And now” here Holmes paused to yank his thin wrist from Watson’s firm grip with a surprisingly violent jerk. There was an undercurrent of shame and frustration beneath his voice as he finished speaking. “I’m going to sleep. You’d do well to do the same.”

Watson couldn’t seem to get a word out until Holmes had already walked to his bedroom. As the detective closed the door behind him, Watson managed a hollow murmur. “Goodnight, Holmes.”

Holmes looked at him for a moment, the scrutinizing gaze that always made Watson feel nervous and small. “Goodnight, Watson,” Holmes finally replied. And then the door was shut, and Watson was alone.

He didn’t understand exactly what had happened, but Holmes had seemed almost mad at him. Then again, he should have known better than to keep pressing the subject. After all, Sherlock Holmes was a notoriously difficult man, especially where his private affairs were concerned. Mysteriousness and secrecy complemented each other quite well.

Watson sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose and squeezing his eyes tightly shut. To block out all of the worries racing through his mind. All he did anymore was worry about Holmes, about his health, his safety, his happiness. He also worried about some of the things he thought about his friend. The urges and emotions he struggled to suppress.

If worry could be converted to coal, John Watson could fuel every damned train in Europe for the next several centuries.

Well, no more. He was going to go to bed, he was going to sleep peacefully, and he was going to wake up at a reasonable hour and meet with several patients. He was tired of this, of the confusion Holmes caused him, not only mentally but physically. Let the stubborn ass stew in his discontent, if that’s what he wanted.

As he turned to leave the room something caught his eye, something on Holmes’ desk. The papers Holmes had been scribbling on all day, he had left them, hadn’t brought them to his bedroom as he typically did at night. And Watson did not doubt that it was due to the strange way Holmes had acted towards him. For what was seemingly the first time ever, Sherlock Holmes had let emotion slip him up.

Watson paused. On one hand Holmes was indeed his friend, despite his occasionally volatile personality, and Watson knew it would be an injustice to violate the other man’s trust. On the other hand Holmes was undeniably difficult, and Watson was tired and frustrated and still curious, and maybe it really was something that Watson could help him with.

He made up his mind and walked to the desk, picking up the papers carefully and repositioning the gas lamp to better illuminate the desk. After a few seconds of reading, his expression turned from one of determination to one of disbelief. His brow knit together and he moved the papers closer to his face, certain he had misread the sentence. 

Watson reached out, trembling, and stroked his fingers along Holmes’ erect member, receiving a breathy groan for his efforts. “John, please,” he moaned, back arching against the mattress in anticipation. “John, I want you.”

No. No, he hadn't read it wrong after all.

 

Watson simply stared at the words, mind blank, unconsciously gripping the paper so hard that it crumpled around the pressure of his fingers. He blinked once. He blinked twice.

Holmes had written pornography. Not only had he written pornography, he had written homosexual pornography. Not only had he written homosexual pornography, he had written homosexual pornography starring Watson and himself.

It was simply impossible to wrap his mind around, try as he might. Trembling slightly, jaw still slack with surprise, he flipped to the next page in the stack.

He moved down, his face tantalizingly close to my straining prick, his eyes just as bright and fierce as ever they were when he faced danger at my side. I was in some kind of shock, some kind of trance, something that stilled my mind for the first time in my lonely existence. For I could not look away from him then, could not look away from the rippling muscle of his shoulders, the shine of his freshly tousled hair, the firm set of his strong jaw. I had never felt so consumed by anything as I did then, on the precipice of what was either to be my greatest mistake or my saving grace, or, perhaps, both.

Before I could bring myself to speak he was upon me, hesitant but willing, tongue laving over my manhood with enthusiasm, the rough bristles of his mustache tickling at my skin wonderfully. I bit back a moan, my hand reaching out, grasping at his hair tenderly, as if afraid he might disappear as he did so often in my dreams.”

The perspective had changed to first person on this page, and Watson realized that Holmes had not written one story, but several. Was today the first day he had done this? Or had he been doing it all this week, scribbling these lurid fantasies as Watson sat mere feet away, none the wiser?

Watson swallowed, trying to ignore the fact that he was now painfully erect. Trying to ignore the hope and relief that blotted out the scandal that he should be feeling. Trying to ignore the familiar vice of emotion that returned to clench at his already tired heart. 

He should be mad, shouldn’t he? Or at the very least disturbed? As a doctor he was supposed to view it as a disease, a medical defect. Something to be treated or locked away. But in the army had he not felt the touch of another man? Had he not taken pleasure in their flesh as if it were the most natural thing in the world?

He had. He had passed these encounters off as nothing more than lapses in judgment, his only way of finding solace between the horrors of war. He had blamed it on the lack of women. But if John Watson were to be truthful with himself, he had never known the touch of a woman, because he had never aimed for it. And these things he thought of- _felt for_ \- Holmes could not be dismissed with the same neat logic. 

But Holmes was a man immune to such urges, was he not? This is what Watson had convinced himself of. This was what Holmes had all but stated. He was a logical automaton, caring nothing for the softer emotions, indulging in no sins of the flesh. So why was he writing things like these? Why did his words both invigorate Watson and make him feel uneasy, as if this was all some elaborate joke?

As he moved to turn the page he heard the creak of a door behind him, a sharp inhale of air. He quickly set the papers back on the desk, turning as his heart hammered in his chest.

And there stood Holmes in his dressing gown, a quickly suppressed shadow of shock tugging at his gaunt features.

“Holmes,” he blurted out, making a conscious attempt to appear less, well… Stiff. “I thought you had gone to bed.”

Holmes clasped his hands behind his back, the picture of nonchalance. His natural skill for deception was taking over, calming his features. “I did. But I heard noises, and thought perhaps I should apologize for my behavior earlier.” His eyes shifted calmly to his writing desk, then back to Watson. “Might I ask why you have not yet turned in for the night?”

Watson cleared his throat, but despite his best attempts at composure his tone was diffident. “I’m not tired,” he lied, unsure why he bothered. Did he really owe Holmes any explanation at all? It wasn’t as if he could ever rely on the other man to provide one, so why should he?

There was a painful pause before Holmes spoke, moving forward to stand a few feet from Watson as he spoke. “Watson, you’ve bags under your eyes and an unusual pallor to your skin.” He was noticeably tenser as he said this, eyes peering down at Watson with a frightening intensity. Watson simply averted his eyes, unsure of what to say. This felt unreal. How on earth could he possible confront Holmes about this? What could he say? John Watson was a courageous man, it was true, and yet the implications of what he had found terrified him.

Holmes’ eyes flicked over his face appraisingly, and then he set his lips firmly together. “I see. You’ve been through my things.”

Something about the accusation burned Watson, something about the idea that Holmes was going to blame this awkward situation on _him,_ as if it was _his_ fault that he had discovered his best friend’s stash of… Of whatever it was. “What,” Watson began, snatching up the papers behind him to wave in Holmes’ face with a snarl, “you mean these? Did you not want me to find these, Holmes?”

Holmes closed his eyes for a moment in response, taking a deep breath. Preparing himself for something, his eyes flicking back open to stare at Watson, pain roiling somewhere in their icy grey depths. “I’m sorry,” Holmes said softly, two words Watson had not expected to hear falling from the other man’s lips, never with such convincing sincerity. “I never intended for you to see this.”

Watson’s lips parted in disbelief, rage and betrayal and something else entirely all clashing together in his chest with a ferocity that threatened to tear through him, to shred his sanity. “You never intended for me to see this? What did you think Holmes? That it was perfectly acceptable to write this… Smut about me without my knowledge?”

He stopped, turning away, unable to look at his friend’s face any longer, afraid of what he’d see there. “Do you know what would happen if someone else were to find this, Holmes?” He finished softly. “Do you know the conclusions they would jump to?”

“I do.”

Watson whipped around to face him again, clutching madly at the cloth of Holmes’s dressing gown. “Then why?” He hissed, searching Holmes face for something, anything that explained this.

“Because,” Holmes said, pulling Watson’s hand from his person, “because I needed to maintain my sanity. I disposed of them each night, that much I promise you. Tonight I simply… I made an error.”

“How can this possibly cause anything but insanity Holmes? How could you…” Watson was looking at him pleadingly now, desperately. “How could you treat my as some sex object, as I sat mere feet from you.”

Holmes’ throat contracted, his face trembling now. “I understand you must see me as some abomination now. I know the public’s opinion of my kind.” Watson flinched at the words, Holmes’ self-identification as a deviant. “And if you… Wish to sever our friendship I understand. I’ll help you find other lodgings, if close proximity unnerves you.” 

“Holmes, I don’t-” Holmes lifted a hand to cut Watson off.

“But there is one thing I will have you know.” Holmes said, slowly but steadily. “Never did I view you as a ‘sex object.’ I would never debase you in such a manner. These stories, however wrong I was to write them, were intended only to preserve our friendship. They were intended only to keep me from making a rash decision.”

And here he stopped, taking the papers from Watson’s hands gently, throwing all but one into the now dwindling fire. This he handed back to Watson, who took it uncertainly, glancing at Holmes before looking down to read it.

He is beautiful. He is all of the things I will never be, honest and good and empathetic. I touch his face carefully as I stare into his eyes, and I wonder if he will later see this as a mistake. “I love you.” I say quietly, and I know he is shocked to hear it, because I am the Thing With no Heart, and even these words, as true as they are, come   
out of my lips with great difficulty. "I am not much, but I am yours."

“Telling you that,” Holmes muttered as Watson looked back to him, a look of shock on his face “was the rash decision I did not wish to make.”

“Holmes,” Watson whispered, voice cracking. “You don’t really feel this way, do you?”

“I do.” 

Watson didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know what to think.

And so he didn’t. 

The paper fell from his hands as he crushed his lips to Holmes’, his adrenaline thrumming through his veins wildly, horribly, and a hand rose to clutch at the other man’s dark hair with one violent motion. Holmes body stiffened, drawn tight as a bowstring, his lips trembling beneath Watson’s.

And Watson still felt the rage that bubbled within; rage that Holmes had written these things rather than telling the truth, rage that he returned these feelings at all. This would make their lives infinitely harder. This would ruin them both. And for that split second in time, all tenderness was drained from him, and all that was left was a maddening and hateful hunger.

But then he felt Holmes begin to return the kiss fervently, felt those lithe hands clutching at his back so desperately it hurt.

And he stopped. And he pulled back to see Holmes looking as he never had before, confused and wild-eyed with lust. And it drove him mad in a different way. It calmed the rage. It replaced it with something softer, something bittersweet, something that stung and pulsed and pushed and pulled. 

And it was infinitely tragic, the way Holmes sharply inhaled as Watson raised a hand to cradle his cheek. And it remained in the way he whispered Watson’s name with equal measures of fear and tenderness as Watson pressed their lips together again. This was passion, but it was not the passion of sharp edges and resent.

They stumbled backwards until they met a wall, breath hot on each other’s lips as they kissed, lips parting and clashing wildly. Watson had to stop, because he felt as if he would suffocate from it all, and that’s when Holmes grabbed him, switching their positions, pressing him into the wall with his body, lips falling to suck and bite at his throat.

Holmes was just as confident and skilled in this as he was in anything, and Watson was half surprised by the calmness with which Holmes began to divest him of his clothing, pausing his assault on Watson’s neck only when absolutely necessary. It couldn’t have been long before he was naked from the waste up, Holmes hand tangled in his hair.

And then they were by the fireplace, and if Holmes pushed Watson to the ground a little too hard in his urgency, neither noticed. Holmes hand roamed over Watson’s chest as they kissed, stroking and clutching as Watson reached to untie the rope of the other man’s dressing gown, helping him to tug it off, and their breathing was fast and hot as it was tossed to the side.

Holmes wore only his nightshirt now, and through the thin fabric Watson could feel his friend’s arousal pressing into him. It wasn’t without shame that he clutched Holmes’ hips to his own, grinding with a sharp gasp at the contact; his Jezail wounded leg protested dully but he ignored it, quickening his pace as if in defiance.

It wracked his nerves the way Holmes stared down at him throughout all of this, eyes somehow analytical in their lustful gaze. And oh god the lips, the way they parted with each thrust, small gasps that made Watson’s eyes flutter shut again and again in pleasure. 

Watson’s trousers went next, followed by his drawers, and as he lay naked Holmes crouched above him with flushed cheeks and wandering eyes.

“Watson” he reached down with the briefest hesitation, stroking over bits of his skin with fluttering fingers, his voice choked. “I never thought…”

“Never thought what, Holmes?”

But he didn’t finish, bending to capture Watson’s mouth again instead. And then his nightshirt was off and they were both naked, pressed flush together, rocking against each other so frantically it almost hurt, barely managing to breath as Holmes’ pale fingers reached to close around Watson’s prick. Watson looked at the frail but shapely body above him, bathed half gold in the light of the fire, and he knew he could no longer pretend as if he did not find it beautiful.

Watson’s back arched as Holmes stroked him, and again all he could see were those piercing circles of grey. He fumbled to grab Holmes as well, clumsily matching his pace, and the way Holmes stared at him was no longer so unnerving as it was mind-bendingly arousing.

It didn’t take long before Holmes was crashing over the edge, burying his forehead into Watson’s good shoulder without thought, fingers spasming around Watson’s member as his hips gave a few final shaky thrusts. And as Watson felt the seed spilling over his hand and stomach Holmes bit him, stifling a cry, and that was all it took to do Watson in. He came quickly, back tensing as his eyes squeezed shut, the other man’s name falling from his lips almost unintelligibly. 

After a moment Holmes managed to roll off of him, and they lay together like that some time before Watson managed to speak, licking his now dry lips. “Well, Holmes” he asked, “How did that stack up to your damned stories?”

Holmes paused before laughing, pushing himself up onto one elbow and smiling down with a warmth Watson felt he’d never get used to. “It was, I’m afraid to admit, incomparably more satisfying.


End file.
